by Peter Barns
It was Grey's last panicky scramble that proved his undoing as, accompanied by a loud crack, one of the supporting branches snapped, allowing the whole fabrication to slew sideways and slip down into the rapids.
Grey slid across the bark, scrabbling furiously for a foothold, bellowing in terror as he was catapulted into the icy water.
Brock shot out a paw, managing to force one claw through the skin on Grey's neck before the old Custodian completely disappeared beneath the surface.
Another sharp crack signalled the complete collapse of the shaky structure, and Grey screamed in agony as he was left dangling on Brock's claw.
Brock, dragged forward by the old Custodian's weight, cursed loudly as Grey slipped further into the torrent's cold embrace. Broshee ran forward and together they slowly began to haul Grey clear of the water.
"Pull harder Broshee, pull harder!" Brock shouted, as they fought the hungry river.
Redoubling their efforts, the two badgers hauled for all they were worth, Brock's features twisting with the effort.
Unexpectedly Brock's claw tore through the skin on Grey's neck and they watched in horror as the old badger plummeted backwards into the raging torrent below.
"Greeeeey!
Soffen's shout cut through the loud splashing of the river as the Custodian was swept away by the overpowering current.
"Help him Brock," she screamed. "He'll drown."
Brock set off on a desperate race after the old boar.
Bounding lightly along the tree-trunk, he jumped onto the river bank, then tore alongside the swirling water, trying to keep abreast of Grey. But as the fierce currents swept the old badger along, Brock began to lose sight of his bobbing head.
Rounding a thick bed of reeds, Brock slid to a stop and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Grey clinging to a rock in the middle of the river. The old Custodian had managed to grab hold of an outcrop, but was struggling to retain his grip as the pounding water did its best to wash him away.
"Hang on Grey, I'm coming," Brock shouted from the river bank, desperately searching for something to help him reach the drowning badger.
Anything would do– a branch, a thick root, anything.
Grey's strength weakened and he slid further down the wet rock, his screams, now high pitched and panicky, carrying across the river to Brock, who was forced to watch helplessly as the old Custodian finally lost his grip and slid under the water.
Brock caught one last glimpse of the terrified Custodian as he was finally swept away beneath the foam, his body turning over and over.
Shouting Grey's name above the roar of the pounding river, Brock beat at the bank in helpless frustration. If only there was something he could do. Grey was dying and it was his fault!
He had been the one who'd insisted on bringing the old boar on this dangerous journey, surely there was something he could do to help him now. He couldn't just stand by and watch him drown.
In desperation, Brock turned to the powers of the Dark Healing.
Sending out his anima, the Teller sought the old Custodian's aura, locking his thoughts onto the tenuous contact, flooding Grey's mind with his own determination.
Don't breathe! Don't breathe in the water!
Brock pounded the message into Grey's mind.
Don't breathe! Don't breathe in the water!
Brock paid a high price for his desperate use of the Dark Healing, as slowly, from the depths of his mind, the pernicious tentacles of the ancient black art began slithering into his consciousness.
Brock, having had no formal training nor any experience in the use of the Dark Healing, could do little to protect himself against the Guardian of Blackness as the dark entity lay down new pathways through his mind– pathways that would have far reaching consequences in the Teller's future.
As the oxygen levels in Brock's blood fell, his head began pounding and a sensuous ringing sensation started in his ears. A black cowl crept over his vision, but still he sent out his message, holding his own breath to produce a symbiosis of minds.
Brock's desperation outweighed his common sense, but he was far too guilty over the deaths of his sister and friends, and now the old Custodian, to pay any heed to that now.
"Brock! Brock! What are you doing?" The voice seemed to come from far away; from another time.
Poised on the Fifth Path of Darkness, Brock hesitated for a moment, balanced on the very edge of a deep emptiness– on the point of melding himself with the Guardian of Blackness, of giving himself to the swirls of fascinating darkness.
The voice came again, hard, insistent.
"Brock! Brock, take a breath. Take a breath!"
Senses spinning, Brock withdrew his mind from the comforting blackness. Reeling from the chaos swirling through his head, he reluctantly opened his eyes, sucking in lungful after lungful of cool life-giving air. Brock gasped, the oxygen hitting his bloodstream with such force that he sat back on his haunches.
"If you hadn't stopped me, I would have suffocated," he managed through dry lips.
By Homer, how could he have forgotten the seductive nature of the Dark Healing, after all the warnings he had received during his training?
"Are you alright?" Soffen wrinkled her snout, studying him with a worried expression.
"Grey—?" Brock left the question unfinished.
Soffen shook her head, staring at the floor.
*
Broshee looked up at the bright moon hanging low in the black sky and sighed. She got up, shook some loose earth from her coat and joined Brock, who was laying on a small hillock, staring at the clouds.
Settling down beside him, Broshee studied the moon's splendour.
"How's your mother?" Brock's low voice was full of concern.
Broshee said nothing for a moment, then shook her head slowly as if something had annoyed her.
"Much the same," she answered.
Brock's mind was elsewhere and Broshee's words might as well have been the whisperings of bat's wings for all the impact they had.
The Teller was reliving his conversation with Soffen three moons earlier.
"It's my fault that Darkburst and Grey are dead," Soffen had whispered, her eyes filled with hopeless desolation.
"Don't be silly. Of course it isn't."
Soffen turned away looking at some distant place known only to her, and when she finally responded, it was with an insistence that brooked no argument.
"If I hadn't used the Dark Healing to save Darkburst in the first place, none of this would be happening."
The depths of her despair had caused him much pain.
Brock had tried talking Soffen out of her black mood but she wouldn't be moved. If she felt guilty because she'd used the Dark Healing to save her cub, there was little that he could do to change her mind now. Anyway he was just as guilty. Hadn't he used the Dark Healing to try and save Grey?
Finally Soffen wandered off in the direction of the river, and it was here that Brock found her later, laying beside the remains of the plant that she'd eaten.
Soffen's snout was slick with vomit and her legs curled tightly beneath her, as though she were already dead.
Neither Brock nor Broshee could wake her, or identify the plant she'd used. They could only stand by helplessly, watching as she slipped into a deeper coma.
Later that moon, Broshee placed a paw on Brock's flank. "You must stop blaming yourself," she said in a gentle voice. "It's really not your fault."
Brock turned to the young sow, a strange look in his eyes. "Did I tell you about the stars?" he asked quietly.
Broshee shook her head, confused by the turn the conversation had taken.
"I've been thinking about the Legends," he continued, "and I believe I know where the Circle of Claws is hidden."
As he recited from the Legends, Brock raised his eyes to the moon and adopted the Teller's flat monotone.
"It is said that there is a place where the stars fall to earth, and here the trees reach out to touch on
e another. It is a mystical place between the earth and the sky. A place where monstrous beasts roam and magical powers reign. Where a strange energy leaps from treetop to treetop as the stars fall to earth."
"Or so the Legend has it," Brock said, blinking his eyes rapidly.
He suddenly turned, staring at Broshee so intently that she stepped back in alarm, frightened by the fanatical look in his eyes.
"It's there that The Circle of Claws is hidden. I'm sure of it. High in a tree, looked over by fearsome creatures who guard it with fulgent light. Just as it says in the Legend."
"The Circle of Claws is hidden in a tree?" Broshee's voice was barely audible.
Brock turned abruptly, pointing at the star-splashed sky, his voice swelling to a shout.
"Look there."
"Where? What are you pointing at?"
"The horizon. Look hard. Can't you see them? Can't you see? Those are the stars that Darkburst saw in his vision."
Broshee squinted her eyes, but could see nothing except the darker shapes of the trees against the lighter sky. She wondered what Brock was trying to show her– the sky and the trees certainly– but what else? Then a movement drew her attention.
Far away, so faint that she almost missed them, two stars skimmed across the horizon. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the distance, additional stars followed them. Broshee's heart quickened when she realised that it was in fact a whole line of stars moving low across the sky.
"You see them," Brock stated flatly.
Broshee nodded silently, unable to speak, her eyes locked onto the display taking place on the horizon.
"What are they?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"I saw them first two moons ago."
His voice, flat and unemotional, came to Broshee as though from a great distance.
"I studied them for a long time, trying to make sense of them."
Brock flicked an ear when a breeze ruffled the guard hairs along its edge. "Then last moon, while you were watching over Soffen, I went to see if I could discover what they were. From a distance I saw the trees where the Circle of Claws may be hidden, just as the Legend describes them. And it's true Broshee, they do reach out and touch each other with the thinnest of branches."
"You went to where the stars fall to earth?" Broshee asked quietly.
Brock nodded. "Yes I went to where the stars fall to earth. I saw the trees reaching out to each other. I saw the mystical place." Brock's tone changed and he began spitting out words as though they were causing him pain. "And I heard them Broshee. I heard them. I heard the stars talk. I heard them calling to each other in voices that I could not understand. Harsh, uncompromising words. They frightened me. They frightened me badly."
"The stars talk to each other?" Broshee's voice trembled.
Brock nodded slowly. "They howl and they moan."
"Are you going back to get the Circle of Claws?"
Brock shook his head decisively. "No, I'm not. There's been enough heartache and death already, why should I make more."
As Brock looked directly at her and Broshee could see the despair in his eyes.
"I'm going to stay with Soffen until—" Turning away, he sighed deeply.
"You think mother's going to die, don't you?"
Brock didn't answer her question, just continued to stare into the distance. In the end Broshee crept away, trying to ignore the empty feeling welling up inside her. She went and sat with her mother for awhile, but quickly grew restless and decided to take a walk.
The black sky was ablaze with stars, which reminded her of the earlier conversation with Brock. Since she'd seen the stars sparkling on the horizon something had been nagging away at the back of her mind, pulling at her, tugging urgently.
"I hear you calling," she caught herself muttering, staring at the line of stars in the distance. "I hear you calling and I'll come."
With no power to resist the invisible forces acting on her, Broshee could only give herself to the persistent entity.
"I'll come soon. For my mother and Grey, I'll come. For Brockenhurst Valley and its ancient forest, I'll come. For my dead brother, I'll come."
Then, joining her mind with the vitality of the stars, Broshee smiled, feeling complete for the first time in her short life.
Finally Broshee returned to the burrow, determined to tell Brock where she was going, and if he objected, well she would go anyway.
Chapter 13
Skelda woke with a start and getting to his feet, shook his head, trying to clear the last vestiges of the dream from his mind. Taking a deep breath, he wrinkled his snout. It'd been a long time since that particular dream had troubled him.
In the dream he was a young cub again, playing around an old tree stump from which the middle had rotted away. The stump was full of rainwater and the reflection shimmering in its depths fascinated him.
Leaning over to get a better view, he slipped, plunging headfirst into the cold scummy interior. Struggling only made matters worse and he quickly found himself wedged tightly. He began to panic, thrashing his legs about in a hopeless attempt at freeing himself, and just as he thought that he was about to drown, he was lifted high into the air.
After being unceremoniously dumped on the ground, where he lay coughing and gasping for breath, the large badger who had pulled him from his plight, glared down at him and wrinkled his snout in anger.
"What have I told you about playing around when you should be studying?" his father chastised him. "Now let that be a lesson to you. The next time I catch you away from your studies, be sure you'll not get off so lightly."
Skelda cringed in expectation of a physical assault but on this occasion it never came.
"Go on, get back to the sett," his father finished with a toss of his head.
Expecting a blow to land across his back at any moment, Skelda hurried away before his father changed his mind and exacted the usual punishment.
Beatings had been an integral part of Skelda's upbringing over the years, and he had learned to live with them, but the constant punishments had built up a smouldering hatred for his father in the young cub's mind which one cycle exploded into an attack that surprised them both. It had left Skelda's father seriously injured and from that moon forward the old boar had never laid a paw on his young boar again.
Shaking himself back to reality, Skelda hissed his annoyance at the emotions the dream always aroused in him.
Absentmindedly rubbing at the growth on his head dislodged the grubs feeding there, and he paced back and forth, trying to understand why the dream had returned after such a long absence. It always forewarned of some danger or other and Skelda had learnt to ignore it at his peril.
As the misshapen badger continued his pacing, his one good ear laid flat along his head in concentration, the answer suddenly struck him. Something had gone wrong with the search for Boddaert's Magic– that was what the dream was trying to tell him.
Leaving the comfort of his sleeping chamber, Skelda hurried along the tunnels leading to the Taproot Chamber. Finally he stood before the carvings, breathing hard from his exertions.
Then, melding his own powers with the carving's magic, Skelda directed his mind towards the Talisman that had been given to Darkburst. A few moments later he gasped in horror as the scene shimmered into view before his eyes.
Darkburst was thrashing about in a water-filled tunnel, fighting for his life!
In other circumstances Skelda might have enjoyed watching a badger slowly drown, but if the young acolyte died before he'd completed the task set him, then all Skelda's carefully laid plans would fall apart.
Focusing his mind on the Dark Healing, Skelda quickly dropped into a trance, plunging down the First Path of Darkness. It was familiar ground and he quickly reached the threshold of the Ninth Path, where he willed his essence to conjugate with the Guardian of Blackness.
Grunting in reaction as the sentinel clawed itself deeper into the more primitive areas of his mind, Skelda pushed on, even t
hough he knew the gamble he was taking. He had no choice, because if he failed to save his drowning son, all his planning and dreams would have no meaning.
His whole life, his very being, had been aimed at just one event: obtaining Boddaert's Magic.
*
The small creature who had started the chain of events leading to Darkburst's demise lay quietly, every sense alert, whiskers twitching nervously, frightened by the sounds that had begun a few moments earlier. As the sounds grew steadily louder the field mouse flicked her ears urgently. One, with a ragged notch gained from fighting, lay pressed close to her head, the other stood erect, the hairs on its tip quivering. As the sounds grew nearer the tiny creature scurried from its hiding place between the joints of the old field drain, running soundlessly over the rough surface away from the threat.
The noise that had startled the field mouse quickly developed a new quality– reminiscent of dead leaves rustling in an autumn breeze. Then, from a crack where one section of the concrete field-drain abutted the next, a spider appeared.
Another popped into view.
And another.
Then more and more, until hundreds upon hundreds of the creatures flowed from the joints along the tunnel, jerking this way and that, their small, yellow-tinged bodies joining together into one undulating stream that oozed like pus from a gaping wound.
Dropping into the water the spiders disappeared below the surface, a thick glutinous mass, each carrying its own tiny bubble of air trapped between the fine hairs on its body.
Darkburst's vision was rapidly fading and, somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, he realised that he only had a few brief moments left to him. But he wasn't frightened now, floating in the water with a stillness that spoke of death– of an embrace with blackness.
His mind was losing its sharpness to the reality of death, and his thoughts meandered amongst happy cubhood memories . . .
. . . running along the moon-dappled pathways of Brockenhurst Forest, his sister chasing him, Darkburst gave a squeal of delight-
a swift change of viewpoint and he was pouncing on an anthill, chasing the myriad small creatures as they flowed from their damaged nest—
now his mother stood before him, just a shimmering outline, smiling quietly—
an unexpected change as the moonlight was replaced by a harsh sun. Staring at it hurt his eyes and he turned away to discover that he was in a meandering tunnel, floating freely, pulled along by a brightness that lay ahead—